The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(54)

Unless someone was paying her.





Wednesday, 31st July, 1940

Prim had the most wonderful idea. We’re to have a Memorial Service for everyone to come together and help those grieving. I think Mrs. Tilling prompted her by mentioning Mrs. Turner, whose husband was killed in a bombing raid over Dover. And there’s poor Mrs. Poultice, too.

“It’s important for them to know that we’re grieving with them,” Prim told me in my singing lesson today, which was held in the church for extra acoustics. I sang the Lord’s Prayer, the fullness of the sound making my voice sound extremely professional. She said I could sing it as a solo for the Memorial Service, which is to be in a few weeks’ time.

I always arrive early for choir practice as it’s a wonderful moment, the excitement of singing, everyone glad to see each other, and today was no different, especially since we have the Nazis on our backs, ready to invade, so we have to make the most of everything while we can.

“I’ve been working hard all day preparing for the WVS meeting,” Mrs. B. was complaining. “Never getting a word of thanks or any rest.”

“You have to let us know how we can help,” Mrs. Tilling said.

“Unfortunately I’m the only one who can handle leadership around here.”

Mrs. Tilling began, “I could—”

“There’s no other way around it.” Mrs. B’s voice rose over Mrs. Tilling’s, like a tornado overwhelming a welcome breeze.

“And Mrs. Quail said she—” Mrs. Tilling pressed on.

“If you need something done,” Mrs. B. boomed, and we all knew what was coming, so we joined in: “You have to do it yourself.”

Prim arrived in time to hear the end of this, and to see Mrs. B. fuming as some of us giggled behind our hands.

“Let’s get organized, ladies,” Prim said, hiding a smile and handing around some new music scores. “We are to have a Memorial Service for the Chilbury community, to help us join together in our time of grief.”

Everyone quietly agreed and opened the music scores.

“I’ve chosen a piece from Mozart’s Requiem, ‘Lacrimosa,’ which means tearful, beautifully describing this heartfelt piece. It’s more complicated than our usual hymns and anthems, but I think we can give it a try. It’s one of my favorite pieces of music, a massive ocean of sorrow.”

We opened our music scores to see the complicated patterns of notes.

“Shall we try it out? Let’s all stand. Just try your best, feel the music take hold of you, and don’t worry if you sing anything wrong.”

The introduction began, and I knew exactly what she meant. The piece is like a series of waves gushing over you, becoming larger and more powerful as it goes on, until the incredible, strident Amen at the end, as if we have survived it all, stronger than ever.

“Lovely,” Prim said as she brought the finale to a close, sniffing a little with the emotion of it. “Let’s try it again, shall we? This time, let’s try to feel the sadness of it. Let yourself flow into the music. Let it speak your own grief.”

The introduction began again, this time slower, more thoughtfully, and then we came in with the first tentative notes.

As we sang, Mrs. Turner crumpled into the altos’ choir stall, her hands over her face, her hunched body shuddering with tears. Mrs. Poultice sat down beside her, putting her arm around her shoulder, beginning to cry herself. And a new dread crept into our singing, as if we were singing for them, for everyone who had lost someone, or could.

By the time we reached the powerful chords toward the end, we were almost crying with our song, louder, more raucous than before, until the final Amen, when we all stood together, firm in the power of our choir to face this war together.

“Let’s finish for tonight,” Prim said quietly.

We silently folded our music scores and went over to Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Poultice, putting our arms around them, holding their hands, whispering our condolences. People were putting their hands around Mama as well as she is still mourning Edmund, and Silvie, so far from her family, and Mrs. Tilling and the other mothers and wives, all worried about their loved ones in this horrific war.

“You always have us,” Mrs. Quail said to Mrs. Turner. “I know we can’t replace your husband, but remember we are here, all together. The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir stands with you.”





CHILBURY MANOR,

CHILBURY,

KENT.


Thursday, 1st August, 1940



My dearest Angie,

I was awake at dawn almost paralyzed with fear, as today I was resolved to follow Alastair. I knew that he was busy this morning with his so-called meetings as I’d tried to arrange something and he resolutely refused.

Of course I hardly slept a wink. I was so certain that I’d face probable death on this outing that I almost let myself off the hook, snuggling down under the counterpane for extra protection. What made me get up in the end was the thought that my pregnancy is becoming less of a possibility and more of a reality. I have to know what to do.

I got up around four, dressed quietly, and took one last look around me—would I ever see my dear bedroom again? Stealing softly down the back stairs and through the pantry, I stepped out into the still, dark air.

I slowly crept into the lane, feeling like the only person alive, although I’m sure some of the farmhands down in Dawkins Farm would have been hard at work in the fields. There was a light mist that lingered in the air, coating the village with a wordless hush.